


Sherlock-and-John

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No Mary, Oneshot, Proclamations of love, Truth or Dare, johnlock oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his daughter and the imprisonment of his wife, John Watson moved back into 221B Baker Street and things went back to normal.<br/>Or at least, as normal as they could be. <br/>But there are things to be said. Things to be done. And what better way to say and do these things than truth or dare?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock-and-John

  1.  




‘I have never been more bored.’

John glanced at his flatmate and sighed, closing his laptop. If Sherlock was bored, that meant he expected entertainment from John, and that meant there would be no blogging tonight. ‘You say that all the time.’

‘That’s because I’m _bored_ all the time, John.’ Sherlock said in his _duh_ voice, as if he expected John to have come to this conclusion all by himself, as if John was being stupid for not realising this already and John wondered when this had stopped annoying him and become endearing, instead.

Sherlock groaned loudly; clearly, John had been quiet for too long. ‘Bored, John!’

John twisted around in his chair and glanced at the kitchen, debating telling Sherlock to start an experiment before deciding against it; even if it didn’t end in explosion or an injured Sherlock, it meant the younger man would _never_ go to sleep tonight. He’d be too busy finding out how Botox affected fingers, or if humans could digest calcium carbonate, or something equally as endangering and stupid and so, so clever-

A gun hit John’s knee.

John picked up the gun and glared at Sherlock. ‘You could have _shot_ me!’

‘Chillax,’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘It isn’t loaded.’

‘Chillax?’ John tried to keep his expression angry but his mouth was twitching, trying to pull upwards into a half-smile because even when Sherlock was being annoying, even when Sherlock was being a twat, he could still make John smile.

‘Yes, John, chillax. All the, ah, cool kids are saying it. At least, that’s what Archie told me. His older brother is fifteen, Archie said, and seems to say it all the time.’ Sherlock leaned backwards, looking pleased with himself, and raised an eyebrow. ‘How could you not _know_ that, John!’

‘Because I’m a thirty-seven year old man, Sherlock, not a public school boy.’ John retorted, moving over to his chair and collapsing in it, wincing as something sharp pierced his left buttock. He pulled it out and gaped, holding it out to Sherlock. ‘Why is this here?’

‘It’s not mine.’ Sherlock didn’t even look at him, gazing out of the window, bottom lip jutting out as he pouted.

‘Yeah, actually, it is! It’s an Oxford pin, Sherlock, and I sure as hell didn’t go to Oxford.’ John dropped the pin and rubbed his arse, frowning. ‘I might be bleeding-‘

‘You’re not bleeding, John, man up.’ Sherlock interrupted, turning away from the window and stretching out his legs as far as they would go. ‘Jawn…’

John rubbed his eyes; when Sherlock said his name like that, it almost always meant he was going to ask John to do something either dangerous, embarrassing or inconvenient and John would have no choice about doing it because when Sherlock looked at him like that, with those big eyes so pleading and his lips turned down and his hair all mussed up at the front-

_Shut up, John._

‘Jawn,’ Sherlock continued, as if he wasn’t checking John’s face for every reaction he had to anything Sherlock said, as if he had absolutely no idea what was going in John’s brain right now, as if he was as clueless as he had always let on, ‘can we play a game?’

This surprised John; he sat up and frowned. ‘A game? You mean…Cluedo? Because I swear to god, Sherlock, I’m never playing that with you again-‘

‘ _No,’_ Sherlock waved John away dismissively, turning back to the window. ‘No, a different game. Let’s play-‘

‘If the next word is murder, Sherlock, I will _kill_ you.’ John said playfully. It was his favourite memory from his sham of a wedding (perhaps this should have been a clue that he didn’t actually _love_ Mary, let alone be married to her) but Sherlock had stopped smiling, instead looking at the floor, not speaking.

When Sherlock stopped speaking, something was wrong.

‘You ok?’ John asked. ‘I was joking, Sherlock, if you want to play murder-‘

Sherlock looked up and attempted a smile that seemed more like a grimace; tight and false. ‘No, of course not.’

‘So what’s the game?’ John asked, suddenly feeling horrendously guilty though he had no idea _why,_ he hadn’t done anything.

‘I don’t want to play anymore.’ Sherlock muttered, turning over in his chair. ‘Go back to typing.’

‘Aw, Sherlock, come on.’ John got out of his chair and leant next to the consulting detective. ‘Please, Sherly?’

‘Don’t call me Sherly.’ Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the chair, but he turned around and smiled again so John knew he was forgiven for whatever the hell he had done. ‘Ok. Let’s play truth or dare.’

John’s mouth fell open. ‘Truth or dare? What are we, prepubescent girls?’

Sherlock smiled, lounging back in his chair, his dressing gown falling open. It was a warm summer evening, but he was wearing a too-big blue t-shirt that was probably John’s and his pyjama bottoms. John wondered why he wasn’t wearing his sheet.

‘Oh, Doctor Watson,’ Sherlock said huskily, eyes heavy, hooded, almost, ‘I think you’ll find I’m anything _but_ a prepubescent girl.’

And Sherlock stood up and padded out of the room, leaving John kneeling next to the chair, brain short-circuiting.

Was that- had Sherlock- was that _flirting?_ Was Sherlock- had Sherlock- flirted with him? Was that sentence what John thought it was? Or was he seeing things that weren’t there (again)?

It had seemed loaded, it had seemed as if Sherlock was saying what John thought he had said, but did Sherlock even _know_ how to flirt? He had done with Irene Adler, but he had seemed to have no idea what he was doing then, hadn’t appeared to realise then, but this time he had sounded so _sure,_ so _confident_ and his voice had been so deep as he said _Doctor Watson_ , so fucking hot that John’s cock was twitching just from the memory and it really showed how much he needed a shag if Sherlock calling him _Doctor Watson_ made him hard-

Sherlock reappeared. John jumped to his feet and sat back in his chair, trying to look nonchalant, heart racing as he waited for Sherlock to explain himself, to say something, anything, about what that was-

‘So. Truth or dare.’ Sherlock sat in his chair and smiled evilly, eyes trained on John. ‘You know how to play?’

For a millisecond, John felt disappointed. Sherlock was not going to address whatever he had said, and if he wasn’t going to say anything that meant it was a joke, or Sherlock hadn’t realised how it sounded, of course Sherlock wasn’t flirting with him, why would he be? John had ruined every possibility of them ever being together by marrying Mary then staying married to her after she almost _killed_ Sherlock. Why would Sherlock even like him anyway? John had constantly reassured the world (and himself) that he wasn’t gay before the fall, had tried not to show any un-hetro feelings for the man who was married to his work, had tried not to seem jealous when Sherlock was around Irene Adler or Molly or Janine or even fucking _Moriarty_.

‘John, you look like you’re about to start crying.’ Sherlock said, eyebrows creased, still staring at him and it was making him fucking uncomfortable, ‘you do know how to play…?’

‘Of course I do,’ John forced himself to sound light-hearted, even laughing as he said, ‘I used to play loads when I was a kid. Thirteen to fifteen, I suppose.’

‘Excellent!’ Sherlock clapped his hands together. ‘You start.’

John felt himself relaxed. Sherlock seemed to be in an unusually good mood, a mood generally reserved for a particularly juicy murder (serial killer, mostly) or an experiment-

‘Sherlock? Has Greg texted you about a murder?’ John asked as nonchalantly as possible. Sherlock shook his head, looking disappointed. ‘No one called Greg has texted me about a murder. Neither has Lestrade. It’s a shame.’

John didn’t say anything, watching Sherlock carefully. If there wasn’t a murder…

This was an experiment. There would be no other reason for Sherlock to do something so…un-Sherlocky as playing Truth or dare. For some reason, in some way, this was an experiment, and John could either refuse to play or just let it happen.

Ordinarily, John would stop this now (it usually ended badly when Sherlock didn’t tell him about experiments; Baskerville in particular) but no explosives were involved and Sherlock seemed so _happy_ as he sat there, smiling at John-

‘Ok.’ John resigned himself to whatever was going to happen and sat back in his chair. ‘Fine. Truth.’

Sherlock looked disappointed but nodded. ‘First kiss.’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would you care about my first kiss?’

‘Play the game, Jawn!’ Sherlock moaned, not answering, so John just sighed and said, ‘I was thirteen. I was at a disco, I was with my mates and the most popular girl from the year above came over to us and said, ‘I was dared to kiss a boy from year eight and you’re the best looking so I’m kissing you.’’

‘She said that to you?’ Sherlock was leaning forwards in his chair and he actually looked _interested,_ which was amazing because Sherlock never cared about trivia like this, all Sherlock cared about were the facts, nothing more, nothing less.

John nodded, slightly uneasy. ‘Yeah. She bent down and kissed me and walked away. I was a hero.’

‘A hero…’ Sherlock mused. ‘A hero because an older female decided that you were the best option out of a bad lot.’

‘Yeah.’ John nodded. ‘I was star-struck. I developed this massive crush on her, though I knew it would never happen. She broke my heart.’

‘Ah, a broken heart.’ Sherlock smirked as he pulled his legs onto the chair, scrutinising John over his knees. ‘The single most painful experience in human history.’

John didn’t know if Sherlock was being sarcastic or not so he just smiled and said, ‘truth or dare?’

And thus it continued.

Truths and dares for hours, with Sherlock and John sitting in their chairs, just like in the old days before the Fall and the Wedding and the Exile and the Divorce. It was before everything that ruined it happened; for those hours, once again, they were just Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock, a genius with self-esteem issues and an ex-army doctor with an adrenaline addiction who found their saviours in each other.

John loved it.

It was past midnight when Sherlock said, ‘we’ve been playing for three hours.’

John glanced at the clock and blinked a couple of times before saying, ‘so it is.’

For some reason Sherlock found this hilarious and started laughing, laughing like he had that first night at the crime scene after John shot the cabby and it made John smile, even now.

‘Do you want to stop?’ John asked, even though he didn’t, he never wanted it to stop, he wanted to carry on playing with Sherlock and talking to Sherlock and just being _with_ Sherlock. He didn’t want to go to his cold bed and think about Mary in prison or the baby girl he had buried, he didn’t want to think about James Moriarty, who may or may not be alive, he didn’t want to think about Sherlock’s hand on his and how much he had wanted to say those three words but how he knew he couldn’t, not then, and he especially didn’t want to dream about a cold January morning and the blood on the pavement-

‘God, no.’ Sherlock said, leaning forwards. Over the course of the evening they had moved closer and closer to each other; they were as close they had been on the stag night, knees touching and John could just barely resist the urge to put his hand on Sherlock’s knee-

‘Truth or dare?’ He said quickly, pulling back. Sherlock frowned before leaning back as well, swinging his pyjama clad leg over the side of the chair. ‘Truth.’

‘What was the worst day of your life?’ John asked, and Sherlock stiffened, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Hmm. I’ve had a lot of bad days, John. When my dog was put down, when I was first put into rehab, when my biological father was murdered…’

‘You have to choose one,’ John said, wagging his finger. Sherlock glanced at him, sighed, and said, ‘the day you got married.’

John was expecting a lot of things.

 _That_ wasn’t one of them.

Sherlock continued as if John wasn’t gaping next to him, as if John wasn’t staring, transfixed, though he didn’t make eye contact. ‘That was the day I lost my best friend to an assassin. That was the day that I knew you could never forgive me for- for what I did. That was the day I was alone again.’

John shook his head and put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, staring into his beautiful eyes, intense and sad and confused and so _Sherlock_ , and he said, ‘I was never lost, Sherlock. I was just temporarily away.’

Their heads were so close together that Sherlock’s curls were tickling John’s forehead.

Their heads were so close that John could see the tiny hairs on Sherlock’s upper lip.

Their heads were so close that John could feel Sherlock’s breath.

If John moved his head just an inch, two inches tops, their lips would be touching. ‘Truth,’ Sherlock whispered, making no effort to move his head back, ‘or dare?’

‘Truth.’ John murmured, although he wasn’t concentrating on the game anymore, although he could barely understand what Sherlock was saying because all he could see, all he could feel, all he could think about was _Sherlock._

Sherlock moved slightly, twisting around John until his lips were touching ( _touching!)_ John’s ear, and John shivered because nothing had ever felt so sensual, so beautiful, so magnificent before-

‘How much of the stag night do you remember?’ Sherlock whispered.

John froze.

_The stag night._

The night before John married Mary, the night before everything changed, the night before the speech that made John realise that once Sherlock had loved him, that once Sherlock wanted him, the night before John lost Sherlock forever by choosing _Mary._

The night that John had, in a drunken, confused, longing stupor, kissed Sherlock.

He had been drunk, very drunk, and most of the night was hazy; the pub crawl, spiking their drinks, Sherlock starting a fight and then that game with the post-it notes. Sherlock hadn’t known who Madonna was and it was the funniest thing John had ever heard, and they had been close, just as close as they were now, and John’s hand was on Sherlock’s knee and he couldn’t even remember who Mary _was,_ let alone that he was about to marry her, and Sherlock had said something in that gorgeous face and all John could think about was how _fucking_ gay he felt right then, how _fucking_ much he wanted to kiss Sherlock, how _fucking_ done he was with all the pretending.

And he had kissed him.

Kissed him hard, harder than he had meant to, and Sherlock hadn’t pushed him away but let him kiss him, kissed him back, pulling John onto him, pulling John closer so the older man was pretty much sitting on Sherlock’s lap, and all John wanted right then was _Sherlock,_ he couldn’t even remember who Mary _was_ as he grinded down onto Sherlock, pulled at that blue shirt that was _so_ tight on him, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him and Sherlock was making sounds that John had never, ever thought Sherlock was capable of making, and giddily John thought that Sherlock had done this before, that Sherlock was in _no way_ inexperienced and his hands were on Sherlock’s zipper now, still kissing him- And then, of course, they’d been interrupted. The woman who was dating a ghost; Sherlock seemed to forget all about it, pushing John off him and listening, carrying on as normal. John had remembered it the following morning but he was getting _married_ in a few days and Sherlock didn’t seem to recall it; at least, he’d acted the same as usual the following morning. Sherlock had been drunker than John, and it had only lasted a minute, but John had wondered _so many times_ afterwards what would have happened if the woman hadn’t walked in, hadn’t interrupted them.

Sherlock had moved his head back to its original position, lips inches from John’s, and John didn’t know how to react, didn’t know what he could say, didn’t know what he _should_ say, but Sherlock was looking at him, expecting an answer.

‘I…I remember a lot.’ John said vaguely. Sherlock smiled, looking down, and he said, ‘you remember kissing me?’

He was being oddly direct, John thought.

‘Yes.’ John admitted. No point in denying it, John decided. Sherlock would be able to read him, anyway.

‘I thought so.’ Sherlock _still_ wasn’t moving, still _so close_ and John wondered why. Was this part of the experiment? Did he want John to admit his feelings for him? Why would he want that? The man had never shown any romantic preference for _anyone,_ save the strange tension between him and Jim Moriarty which John suspected Sherlock would _never_ tell him about-

‘Do you know why, John? Why I didn’t say anything? Why I didn’t tell you, or Mary? Why I let you just go off and get married?’

‘Noooo…?’ Sherlock didn’t look smirky anymore, didn’t look as if he was making fun of John. Instead he looked...done.

‘Because I love you.’

Time stood still.

Four words, echoing around John’s head, four words that sounded entirely foreign in that deep, hard voice, four words that suddenly explained absolutely everything that Sherlock had ever done for John.

_Because I love you._

Four words that made John realise _why._ Why Sherlock hadn’t left him at the pool, why Sherlock had jumped, why Sherlock had let him get married, why Sherlock had shot Charles Augustus Magnusson. Four words that showed John just _why_ his happiness seemed to be so important to the man sitting so close to him that he could see flecks of gold in his eyes. Four words that showed John just _why_ the man who he had missed with an ache so deep it caused him constant pain had opened up his home and his heart and his life for him. Four words that showed John just _why_ he was the exception to Sherlock Holmes’s rule.

_Because I love you._

Sherlock looked nervous, slightly apprehensive, and John wanted to say something back, tell Sherlock how he reciprocated his feelings, how much he wanted him, how much he adored him, how long he had wanted him and adored him, but nothing was coming out. All he could think about were those four words.

_Because I love you._

Four words that John had never, ever thought he would hear coming from Sherlock’s mouth, particularly directed at _him,_ four words that would change their lives forever, four words that John would never, ever getting tired of hearing.

_Because I love you._

‘So.’ Sherlock whispered, though even that sounded too loud in the flat now, now that a secret that had been kept hidden for God knows how long was out in the open. ‘Truth or dare?’

‘Shut up.’ John said, and he moved his head forwards and he kissed Sherlock.

This time, John wasn’t drunk. This time, John could feel how soft Sherlock’s lips were. This time, John could see Sherlock’s eyes, an inch from his own, more beautiful than the all the stars in the sky. This time, John was fully aware of what was happening, and this time John could appreciate just how amazing it was kissing this _brilliant_ man.

It wasn’t like their first kiss; this one was soft and sweet and the best kiss that John had ever experienced. This kiss was perfect, and this kiss made John feel unadulterated and unequalled happiness.

Sherlock broke away but stayed close to John as if he couldn’t bear for them to be apart, and he said, ‘well. That was unexpected.’

John took Sherlock’s hand and looked down. ‘Yeah. I suppose it was.’

Sherlock looked away, though he clutched John tightly as if he thought that when he let go, John would disappear. ‘I’ve- I’ve suspected you maybe thought that way about me ever since you turned in Mary. I needed to-‘

‘I knew this was an experiment.’ John crowed, which was ridiculous because he shouldn’t feel competitive now, he had just kissed _Sherlock_ (while sober). Sherlock smiled as well, staring at the wall, as awkward as a teenager who’d just had their first kiss, and he said, ‘yes. Well. I had to know. Unrequited love is tormenting.’

‘I know,’ John said quietly, serious again. ‘I know.’

And then they were silent again, just looking at each other, and John was looking at the face of a self-proclaimed sociopathic murderer with self-esteem issues and a blatant disregard for personal safety, but he couldn’t see that man anymore. He could see a man who had had no friends yet readily accepted an adrenalin junky soldier into his life, a man who had put his own feelings aside for him, a man who had taught him to dance and folded napkins for a wedding that must have been _hell_ for him and even shot someone to save the woman who had shot _him_ because he thought it would make John happy.

John looked at Sherlock and he knew that this, whatever _this_ was, was how they were meant to be. Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock, two men who loved each other more than anything else in the universe, two men who wouldn’t, couldn’t leave each other _ever again._

‘So…what now?’ Sherlock whispered, and John just shook his head because he didn’t know what was _now,_ he didn’t know what they were going to do next. All he knew was that it didn’t matter because he had Sherlock, now, and that meant that everything was perfect.

They sat in silence, holding hands, and John didn’t care about anything but Sherlock, who was finally, _finally,_ his.


End file.
